A Case of the Grumps
by MiroTheCat
Summary: Sam is just having one of those cruddy days.
Sam is usually (far too) patient with the team of maniacs he's joined. He likes them, though, and he's doing good as an avenger. That same sense of purpose that he felt as a pararescue, before Riley died, is back. Not that he didn't feel a sense of purpose at the VA, but… it was different.

Today, Sam does not have patience for the rest of the team. At all. He copes with things by being active. Always has; it's just how he's wired. He runs. He goes to the gym. He straps on his wings and drills old and new techniques until he's too tired to think about the memories that get to him. (Watching Riley fall. A child-sized severed arm near a blast site in Afghanistan. A grainy cell phone video of the last minutes of one of the guys he counseled at the VA, a really good kid who asked if Sam thought he was recovered enough to give college a try just hours before he was killed by the police for being a jumpy young black man whose hearing had been damaged by a blast.) That coping strategy doesn't work when he's hurt, is the problem.

Which isn't to say he hasn't tried and definitely made his sprained ankle worse in the process. Flying is fine, landing not so much, and now the joints of one of his wings are all gummed up with dirt from a spectacularly failed one-legged landing attempt and the maintenance robots are busy cleaning it. So he's without a productive outlet, his ankle is throbbing, and he just doesn't have it in him to deal with the usual insanity. It's hard to avoid people in the compound and walking is not something he wants to do more of than he has to, so despite the slight chill in the air he's ended up lying on the grass just outside one of the side doors to the garage/workshop where he hopes he'll be hard to find, trying not to think about every stupid little thing that's gotten under his skin lately. He's not sulking. He's _not_. This is fucking stupid. He can help other people with their feelings all day; he should be able to cope with a little forced inactivity without turning into a kid who's missed his nap.

Not that he's getting any peace and quiet. He's been almost run over by a river of ants twice, he's right under Clint's window and the archer evidently isn't wearing his hearing aids because he has his music up ungodly loud, Wanda's attempts to do…something…telekinetically with rocks around back keep collapsing and making him jump, and he's rapidly spotted by Steve. The only person not getting on his nerves is Bucky, who Sam knows for a fact is similarly avoiding people a good 50 feet up in a tree like an antisocial cyborg cat.

As he was pretty sure was about to happen, Steve pops out of the door a minute later and plops down at his side. "Hey! Can you talk to Bucky?"

 _Oh boy._ "Why?" Sam tries to not snap at his friend.

"I'm worried about him."

 _You're always worried about him._ "I already gave him business cards for several therapists who are willing to work with our crowd."

"I don't think he wants to talk to them. I thought maybe someone he knows…"

"No." Sam refuses to stop staring at the sky, even as he feels the tension build in his body.

"What do you mean no?" Steve's tone is taken aback, and Sam doesn't have to look to know his friend is wearing that expression that he likes to compare to a puppy who has just run into a sliding glass door. "We're all part of this team."

"Yeah, exactly." Sam snaps. He knows he's being slightly hard on Steve—the guy comes from the era of house calls and doctors who took care of their own friends and family and psych not being a specialty the typical person came in contact with or knew anyone who came in contact with—but by god is he feeling cranky right now. "It's called professional ethics. I'm _literally not allowed_ to treat anybody I know."

"Oh." Steve seems to puzzle that over. "Really? That's different."

"Really." _Would you please fuck off._

"Guess I'm just a fossil then." Steve jokes ruefully. Sam huffs half-heartedly because he doesn't know what else to do. "Hey, you alright? You don't seem quite yourself."

"Meh." Sam wants to tell him, he really does, because that's what friends are for, but he's far better at talking about other people's feelings than his own. "Just kind of a cranky day."

"Aw. C'mon. Let's go for a run. I'll even go slow for you." Steve pokes his leg.

" _Ow_ , fuck." It is definitely tender. He knows rationally that it needs ice and wrapping, but he doesn't want to get up and hobble inside.

"What'd you do." Steve tugs gently at his pant leg. "I'm no expert on your legs, but that looks swollen."

"Sprained. Stepped in a hole."

"Ouch. Forget about the run, then. Let's get some ice on that." Steve scoops him up like he weighs nothing (damn super soldiers) and carries him inside. Sam doesn't want to admit it, but it feels good. Like being a little kid again, even if the size ratio is way off and he's being cradled against a far more muscular chest than either of his parents ever had. He ought to complain, because this is weird, but his inner cranky little kid is enjoying the hell out of this.

"Want to help me get caught up on my list of movies?" Steve asks as he delicately unlaces Sam's sneaker and tries to ease it off as gently as possible.

Sam grimaces and squeezes the throw pillow next to him. "What, our fearless leader doesn't have better things to do?" He shouldn't snipe at his best friend like this, he knows that, but he can't seem to help himself today.

Steve, to his credit, seems to know not to take it too personally. "I _like_ spending time with you, smartass. And if you're genuinely concerned, no, you're not keeping me from anything that I wasn't already trying to avoid." He finishes wrapping Sam's ankle and chucks the remote at him on his way out of the room. "Pick something."

It ends up being old Disney movies that Sam hasn't watched since he was a kid. He's just settled on one to start with when Steve comes back armed with ice, painkillers, hot chocolate, popcorn, and a fuzzy blanket. Sam eyes the hot chocolate and blanket. "Really? We're going there?"

Steve gives him that cheeky grin that Sam has learned to associate with trouble and usually precedes Bucky smacking him with something. "What? You're having a bad day. But hey, if you don't want it I'll…"

Sam narrows his eyes. "Give me that."

Steve hands the hot chocolate over and flops down next to him on the couch, wrapping the blanket around both of them. "What're we watching?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "You know it's not normal to be this…cuddly…right?"

"Are you complaining?"

"…No."

* * *

 _I've always seen Sam as having the type of personality that psychologically needs a certain level of physical activity to function properly (which he has the self-awareness to recognize), so it was kind of fun to see his usual calm slip when he can't do that, show that depth a little as well as give someone else a chance to pamper him and cheer him up. And also fun to write a little mild flirting towards the end there. It's not my main ship, but it's one that I can totally see; I think the chemistry is there in the MCU, it's just a matter of whether circumstances will align such that it goes anywhere._


End file.
